


Lonely

by Vrunka



Series: Robocop AUs [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Hank, Eventual Smut, Here we go guys, Human Connor, M/M, reverse au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 00:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15303225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: Is something Connor is not. He bought the damn android to clean up his house, he swears it.





	Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be daddy-kink Android Hank cleaning up Connor’s slob act. And then I wrote it and it became something else entirely.

Connor is sort of a fuck up.

He knows it. It isn’t a secret. He gave up lying to himself about it just after getting his police badge. He doesn’t like housework or dressing up or dating apps or any of that other shit that most people his age are into. Getting married or promoted or on with their lives. He’s thirty-one and he still gets emails from his mother daily about getting his life together.

Her latest one is certainly something.

He hovers his finger over the link. Lurid bright red graphics. SALE LIQUIDATION SALE. And his mother’s terse little “maybe one of these can help you sort through your pigsty of a house, Connor” typed right there below the hyperlink.

He can even hear it in her voice.

Her clipped way of speaking.

He clicks the link. The page feels like it takes forever to load. But when it does, Connor finds himself pretty disappointed. There are no pictures, just listed model numbers—half of which are struck through to indicate they aren’t available. He clicks a few of the open ones, but still no pics.

Some fucking sham.

A money grab scheme. Tricking people with want for android services into buying garbage. Into paying for outdated models and obsolete tech.

Connor rolls his eyes. Is about to navigate away from the page and the whole idea of an android housekeeper when the very, very last product on the line catches his eye.

HK100 #313-937-906-21. Price $3999. Clearance. Liquidation pricing lower even than any other on the page.

Connor pauses. HK is an early housekeeping model, he recognizes the tag from all the commercials that used to run. The calming voiceovers. He has the money.

There is sweat on his palms.

Dousing, sudden indecision.

He presses the button. The sweat leaves a tracking little stain across the screen.

It’ll get his mother off his back, he reasons. Can be justified with the pretty generous payment plan he’s able to select. The free two day shipping.

And maybe it will be nice, having something else around the house. Something more than just himself and his fish.

He shuts the data pad off before he can analyze the decision further.

He won’t let himself think about it.

For the next two days he pretty much lives at the precinct. Which is unusual enough even Fowler comments on it. A subtle jab at Connor suddenly showing interest in a promotion.

Which he isn’t.

It’s just easier not to think about the money he has spent on an android he doesn’t need and hasn’t seen and now has to live with because dumping them became illegal about two years ago after a thirium battery leakage led to a water poisoning scare. It’s paperwork and time and effort to be rid of an android.

More so than getting one in the first place.

Which Connor knew.

He fucking knew. But he did it anyway. Some part of him, some little buried part that wants to be better than what he is.

A word he specifically will not think of.

Because he isn’t lonely.

Fuck that.

He gets home Tuesday night after ten pm, stinking from work, sweaty and greasy and exhausted. He has his plan. Feed Sumo two pinches of flakes, strip out of his jeans, drink three glasses of vodka with coke and then sleep for a year.

It’s a solid plan.

Nice and defined.

He gets into it with gusto.

Wakes up with a pounding headache, coinciding nicely with whoever is pounding on his door.

Connor picks his head up off the couch. The leather sticks to his cheek, to the drool on his chin, peels away with a noise. The door reverberates in its frame with the knocking.

‘Connor, Connor, Connor,’ he thinks, ‘guess we’re fucking doing this.’

He stands. Flips the lock open and peers around the door.

The FedEx android barley spares him a glance. He’s got an invoice in one hand and the other braced on—

Connor blinks.

The box is huge. Taller than Connor for sure. But dented and scuffed from travel. Taped and taped and re-taped. Hand-me-down. Used.

Connor bites his lip. Presses his finger to the document. Signing for his package.

“Thank you, Mister Anderson,” the android says. “Enjoy your purchase.”

Which sounds ominous and smug all at once. Sets Connor’s teeth on edge. He shrugs it off. People buy androids all the time, every day. This isn’t weirder than any other person obtaining one to help with chores. To make their lives easier.

It’s the same goddamn deal.

Connor steps back, shoves the door open. Has to hold it wedged open with his foot to grab at the package with both hands. Dragging it inside. His back twinges at the weight.

God he needs to work out more. Skinny but out of shape. Not as honed as he had been just out of the academy. He blows a breath out between his teeth, up toward his forehead so the curls there shift and bounce.

He needs a shower; he’s painfully aware of the smell of his own sweat. The greasiness of his hair. He usually doesn’t care but he—

He doesn’t care.

And now the box is inside so...

He gets one edge of the tape caught beneath his nail, digging at the sticky residue of old packing jobs, the leftover tape ichor gummy on his skin.

He rips at it until the cardboard falls away.

Beyond that initial packaging, the clearance house didn’t even wrap him.

The HK100 stands in Connor’s living room. To say it’s not exactly what he expected would be...something of an understatement. The android is as tall as the box had hinted at. A broad, well built man like every android man is. Like every android woman is. Built to be perfect.

The uniform jacket really accents the shoulders and the barrel-chest. Perfect form but a little overdone for a housekeeping model.

It’s not the only off detail.

Where most androids are perpetually, aesthetically beautiful; designed to be young and—in some regard—desirable forever, this model is—

This model is different.

This model is old. Not even outdated, not even obsolete. He’s old. An old man. Iron grey hair pulled back in a messy man-bun that people haven’t rocked unironically since the 2010s. He has facial hair too which Connor hadn’t realized was even like a thing that androids could come with. But he has it. A clean, cropped little beard.

Connor reaches up, stepping closer to peer into the android’s placid face. The LED on its temple a very simple, neutral white. Some sort of standby mode maybe? Simulated sleep? Connor isn’t sure.

His fingers brush through that beard, inquisitive. It’s not weird. Simply checking the product he had bought. His fingers are shaking because...because it isn’t the product he had thought it would be and and it-it’s just what people do.

The hair is soft, tickling against Connor’s knuckles. More growth than Connor himself is even able to get along his chin and his cheeks—goddamn baby-faced, it’s always been Connor’s curse.

He takes a shuddering breath.

And the android’s eyes open.

Sudden, cool regard. The light blinks slow yellow and the pupils in those blue, blue—fuck they’re blue—eyes contract. Expand. The android takes a breath, cheek moving beneath Connor’s palm.

Connor snatches his hand back like he’s been scalded, scolded. He clutches it to his chest.

He’s only in boxers and oversized DPD hoodie and the android is waking up to him caressing its fucking face.

Yeah this was a great idea.

He’ll have to remember to thank his mother.

“Hello,” the android says. The recorded voice isn’t as mechanical as Connor expects, has inflection and upswing even on that one innocuous word. A slightly human, rough edging to it.

A house-keeping model?

It’s a question now.

Connor swallows, he shifts from one foot to the other. The android watches him. Doesn’t move or fidget or say anything more. The two of them regarding one another.

Each waiting for the other to make a move.

“Are you going to say hello back,” the android says finally, “or would you like me to return to stasis mode.”

Which is as close to being shamed by an android that Connor has ever gotten. Rudeness called out in one decisive little question. He blinks, his weight shifts back onto both feet.

“What,” he says.

The android’s eyes narrow. “We can try again if you would like. Hello,” it says, “I am HK100 313-937-906-21. My name is Hank.”

“I uhh. I’m Connor.”

“Connor Anderson. Blood Type O positive, organ donor, thirty-one years of age. You’ve been working for the Detroit Police for almost seven years though your—“

“Woah woah woah. Stop. Stop. How do you know all that?”

The android blinks. It’s LED flashes. “I was built with the intention of assisting police in investigation settings,” it says. “When CyberLife decided the endeavor was too costly, my model was discontinued.” The LED flickers through a quick yellow, yellow, red cycle. The android’s expression remains the same neutral frown. “My software applications for facial recognition and background checks are fully operational. That is how I know who you are, Detective.”

“It’s...it’s just Connor. I’m—I’m not at work here so...”

For the first time since waking the android’s head moves, tilts. Glancing around the room it is standing in. Little light whirring through yellows so quickly it’s a wonder Connor can even watch it at all without squinting.

He can feel the way the android’s eyes linger on the piles of pizza boxes by the couch. The beer bottles.

“I don’t know for sure, but I believe I was purchased at discount by you, is that correct?” Hank asks.

Calling it Hank, even in his mind feels weird. Another tickling layer of too human. Of searching for something here that is not, cannot be here. This android is like a really, really advanced roomba. It looks like a person but it isn’t one.

“Yes,” Connor says when he realizes that the android is still waiting for him to answer.

“I see.”

“I-I thought you were a housekeeping model,” Connor says. “I was expecting...I dunno. Something different.”

“You are disappointed with my appearance and mannerisms?”

“I don’t—I mean I-I-I uhh. Well it’s no refunds anyway so...”

“You know, I didn’t sign up for this either,” Hank offers. “Your way of living and dressing is woefully inadequate for a man of your age and professionalism.”

Connor blinks. He has to take a second to process that.

“Did you just...just insult me?”

Hank’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know,” he says, “do you feel insulted, Detective Anderson?”

“Hey, fuck you I—,”

He what? What can he say to defend himself? There’s porn magazines in a scattered pile across his coffee table and alcohol stains in the leather cushions of his couch and he hasn’t showered in three days so so so maybe the fucking thing has a point.

“Whatever. Forget it, okay?”

“There is no directive for me to delete files from my memory,” Hank says, “but we can move past this discussion, sure. You were expecting a housekeeping model. Do you expect me to clean your house?”

Connor swallows. He shrugs. “I paid a lot of money for you so I mean, yeah?”

“And while I clean your house you will be?”

“Uhh.”

“Cleaning right along with me? Delightful. Just the answer I wanted to hear. Shall we get started then?”

Which is how Connor ends up with two armfuls of trash that he’s dragging out his apartment door in cheap-ass bags that are ripping in his grip, overflowing from their load.

On his day off.

On his only day off this week.

Which was supposed to be a nice, slow, easy day.

Bowled over by his own android—his, his own, his property if they’re gonna be technical about it. Strong-armed into this.

And speaking of strong arms.

Connor gives a heave, tossing the bags he’s holding over his shoulder and into the compactor at the bottom of the stairs. The weight of them throws him off-balance just enough that his inertia reels and he half-stumbles into Hank.

Into Hank and his strong arms and his square shoulders and frame that is barely rocked even when Connor’s own weight crashes bodily into him. Little to show he’s been hit beyond a hand bracing on Connor’s upper arm, gripping until Connor is steady once again.

He studies Connor’s face. Connor studies his. That weird shared silence. Figuring each other out.

“Sorry,” Connor says finally, figuring maybe it’s what is expected of him. “I didn’t mean to—“

“There’s no harm. Are you okay,” Hank asks. Gruff and firm but with a hint of something slightly softer. Good cop, bad cop subroutine or something. This is good cop, as gooey-centered as the android gets, Connor can imagine.

“I’m fine. Just wasn’t.” He shifts back. “You can let go of me you know.”

Slowly, Hank does. Each finger releasing individually until Connor can wiggle free. His hand hangs in the air for a ridiculous second before dropping down to his side.

“There’s more to do,” Hank says. Clearing his throat in an all too human gesture. “We should keep moving.”

“Yeah, okay,” Connor says.

Okay.

It’s not okay.

It’s...it’s weird and strange and Connor is fucking this up like he fucks up everything. Barely three hours into owning the machine and he’s already starting to suss out a softness in himself for it. Looking desperately for those little human moments. Relying on them.

It’s not a human. It cannot be his friend.

But he finds himself grinning all the same, leaning against Hank’s side when they finally, finally get his living room somewhat sorted. The same way he used to with Cole when they would have accomplished some shitty childhood chore.

Connor nips that thought right down to the root. Wishes he could dig deeper, rip from himself entirely, but he cannot. He steps away from Hank instead, physically distances himself from the android like he longs to from his thoughts. He folds himself onto the couch, tucks his legs beneath him.

“Thanks,” he offers.

He sees the way Hank’s eyes narrow. Then the slight nod. Some of the hair at his temple has escaped his bun, it curls down the side of his cheek, dangles in a way that Connor has trouble tearing his gaze from.

“Should I tell you that your heart rate has increased dramatically,” Hank asks, “or are you already aware?”

Connor feels himself blush. It gets him looking away quick, quick. Suddenly interested in his hands.

“I’m—“

“If such inconsequential physical labor has you exhausted perhaps more time at the precinct gym would be in order, Connor,” Hank says.

Of course.

Connor chuckles, hissing between his teeth, grips his head between his hands. Of course. Innocuous. Nitpicking at personal details. Hank doesn’t know about Cole or anything about Connor beyond what is in his file with the city. A car accident six years ago would hardly register as anything to android anyway. Probably.

“I’ll see what I can do about that,” Connor says off-handedly.

“Will you? Humans are prone to lying you know when discussing topics they would rather not.”

“You learn that in your time with the DPD?”

Hank’s eyes flash, his chin tips upward. “Have you not?”

“I...I dunno. That’s pretty pessimistic for a robot is all I’m saying. Didn’t know they programmed you guys to be so dour.”

“Your comment is rhetorical but I will inform you anyway that I was not programmed to be like most androids. I was a prototype given many different subroutine patterns in order to better coexist along with my fellow officers.”

“Yeah. You know using the phrase coexist doesn’t really make you sound more human.”

“There is a reason I did not use the word blending. It doesn’t really matter what I was built for in the end anyway. CyberLife discontinued the project. I don’t know how I ended up in a clearinghouse but...” Hank’s light flutters, flutters yellow. A color Connor has come to recognize as him processing, thinking too hard about something. Analyzing it.

“But you did. And now we’re dealing with it, I guess. Sucks, huh?” Connor offers while Hank is still silently brooding the end of that sentence away.

“I suppose it could be worse.”

“That wasn’t me fishing for a compliment,” Connor says, grinning. “It sucks one day waking up realizing you’re not at all like...like doing what you wanted to be doing. Becoming-becoming something else because it’s...because you got sold into it,” he finishes, lamely. Grin dropping away into a frown. Brushing just a little too close to personal again.

Hank’s expression shifts just slightly. He crosses to the side, knees in line with the arm of Connor’s couch. Fabric of his pants sliding against the leather with a muted shuffling hiss.

He’s gonna read too much into it. They’re going to have to talk about it. Connor’s stomach cramps. His fingers sweating against his own palms.

Hank touches his shoulder and Connor only just manages not to flinch.

“Is there anything else you currently require of me,” Hank asks, “or shall I return to standby for the time being?”

Brushing past it. Moving on. Connor doesn’t know wether to be relived or disappointed, feels the endorphin rush of both behind his eyes. He sinks further into the couch. Tips his head back to look up into Hank’s face.

“You’re fine, man. Is standby like...like nap mode? Or uh...”

“It is standby. If you need me simply say my name and I’ll start up again. Is that a fair arrangement?”

“That’s—Yeah. It’s fine. Sleep well, Hank.”

“Your sentiment is misguided but appreciated. Thank you, Connor,” he says. And then he crosses the room and sort of just...stands. His eyes close. His LED returns to that neutral white circle.

Connor sighs. He presses hands against his eyes so hard that he stars and explosions from the pressure. Bursts of color in the darkness.

“Goddamn it,” he says.

Goddamn it.

He wakes Hank up a few hours later—not because he is bored and lonely, but because he’s kinda drunk and he’s spilled his drink and he bought the android to help him clean and stay neater so he may as well use him.

“Hank,” he drawls. He’s on the floor. He doesn’t really remember how he got there. But the carpet is cleaner against his face than it’s been in weeks, no lint residue even to stick to the sweat on Connor’s temples.

“Hank come on please.”

And then Hank is there, filling Connor’s vision as the android pulls him upright. Stands him on his feet which are too loose to hold him. Connor feels himself tip forward, knees and shins no longer connected, jittery like something made of paper. Foldable.

He falls into Hank for the second time in one day.

“You are drunk, Detective,” Hank informs him. Frowning. One of his hands braced just below Connor’s armpit. Digging into the soft material of his sweatshirt.

“No shit. I think I made a mess, care to help me with it?”

“I would prefer not to.”

Connor smiles. Nods. “I get that. But can you?”

“Can you stand on your own while I do?”

Connor bites his lip. Shifts until his feet are more properly under him. Makes a novel attempt at standing which consists really of him falling even more into Hank’s arms. “Guess not,” he offers. He reaches up. Touches Hank’s beard again. Pets his fingers through it. He’s drunk. It’s as good an excuse as any.

“What are you doing?”

“I dunno. I’m drunk.”

“We are both exceedingly aware of that. Do you drink often, Detective?”

“Connor. And. And I don’t wanna like do this okay? I just need-need help cleaning up. I spilled my,” he gestures, using his hand on Hank’s face to push the android’s head toward where he spilled his vodka all over the coffee table. “I just...”

“Despite what you may think you ordered me for, my programming does dictate that your safety comes first, Connor. Until you are stable I cannot leave your side.”

“Stable? Like sober?”

“Until I know you are not a drunken danger to yourself.”

“It’s a spill. You get some paper towels and you—you know you,” Connor can’t think of the word. He imitates the motion. Pressing with his hands onto Hank’s chest. “I can hardly hurt myself in the three seconds it takes to do that.”

“But you could hurt yourself. So we will wait until that is no longer a danger.”

Connor frowns.

“We don’t need to make a thing out of this,” Connor says. Glancing up at Hank’s face. Pleading. “I was just...trying to relate.”

“You are lonely,” Hank says. So fucking matter-of-fact it hurts. Rips up Connor’s tissue-paper thin esteem even further. “So you drink. It is not a healthy way of coping.”

“You don’t know shit about me.”

He wiggles, trying to back out of Hank’s grip, but the android just holds him firmer. Lets him fight until the burst of energy has dimmed and he is sagging once more in Hank’s tireless arms. Fucking machine. It’s unfair really.

“Let me go, Hank, that’s an order.”

“I apologize but I am going to go ahead and override that.”

“Fuck off! Let me—,” Connor stretches, pushes, his legs kick.

“You should stop struggling. You are acting like a child.”

“It’s none of your goddamn business what I’m acting like! You can blow me for all I fucking care! I didn’t buy you to goddamn restrain me, Hank!”

He’s yelling. Getting increasingly shrill. Hank’s fingers twitch, he can feel each one where it is holding his body in place. Hank’s light is yellow. For one moment it goes red.

Hank turns them, Connor’s feet catch on the rug, and then Hank is letting him drop, full-bodied onto the couch. Connor is able to hold his own weight for all of a second before his knees go to water under him.

He lands, leg-splayed open, back arched on the cushions. Sweatshirt rucked up his belly. And there kneeling between his spread thighs...

“What are you doing?” His voice trembles, Connor can feel it vibrating in his throat. Caught on something he can’t quite cough out. “Hank?”

“Was that not an order?”

“Was what not?”

“Will you behave if I blow you?”

Connor’s brain cannot catch up with that thought. He must be drunker than he had realized. Hallucinating.

He licks his lips. Swallows over that damn catch in his throat. He can feel whatever it is clicking. Dry, dry.

“I must be hearing things. It almost sounded like you just—“

“Offered to perform oral sex on you for your cooperation. Yes. I did. I believe the term is quid pro quo.”

Favors for favors.

Connor’s leg twitches, caught between Hank’s arm and the couch there isn’t much room for him to go.

“What makes you think I’d want that?”

“My technology may be a few years old, but my sensors work just fine, Connor. Your respiration and heart rate indicate nervousness. Elevation ever since you opened my box.”

“You were recording then?”

“It’s in my programming. It spiked again when your fingers touched my beard. Do you like that addition to my model?” Hank’s hand cups his, drags until Connor is petting the strands. “Is this something that you are normally into?”

It’s not.

Or more precisely, it is and it isn’t. Connor doesn’t go around calling it a daddy complex but-but-but other people probably would. Definitely would. That said he’s never even considered androids as viable...viable anything. Lovers or friends. Housekeeper cum cockwarmer.

Connor curls his fingers until the nails scratch against Hank’s skin. He’s blushing. The heat is suffocating. All the sugary sweetness of the vodka and coke sitting too high in his throat.

“I don’t even know you,” Connor says. He’s trying to think of the consequences. Knows exactly the way these things work out for him. Casual fucks are not ever, ever casual. His heart is too vulnerable for all that. Sticky, sappy and too easily glued to another.

“I’m Hank. And for the moment I am your android.”

“You’re programmed to act this way. You’re,” Connor swallows. “You’re-you’re I dunno. F-following orders.”

“I can assure you I am not.”

“You’re just doing this to get me to obey,” Connor says.

Hank’s hands, both now holding his thighs, fingers just edging beneath the lip of his boxers, squeeze. “You’re pretty pliant right now and I haven’t even done anything.”

Connor’s breathing stutters. His feet curl on the clean carpet. It doesn’t answer the accusation one way or the other. From here Connor can see the reflective sodium arc silver of the vodka splashed across the coffee table, the drip, drip, drip of it onto the clean rug. The bottle still over-turned. Mostly empty. The tv on mute behind Hank’s head, his hair catching the light, brilliant like a halo.

Connor pushes down the thought. He pushes and he pushes until it feels like his whole body is straining with the effort.

And then he says: “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I...yeah. Okay. You can. I want you to.”

“You wanting me to was never the question, Connor,” Hank says. It’s only the wink he adds to the top of the sentence that makes Connor realize it is a joke.

Android sense of humor.

Fucking weird.

And this is a really, really bad idea. But Connor is drunk and he’s lonely—lonely enough even his android pegged it after six fucking hours with him—and he does these fucked up things to hurt himself. Hank’s good intentions gone right to shit.

“Oh—“ Connor grunts as Hank slides one of those hands up under his boxers. Stroking the skin of his thigh. Too large to fit easily, testing the give of the cotton as it turns this way and that within the fabric. 

It’s weird. Again and again the word keeps surfacing, bobbing up for air like some gargantuan sea dwelling mammal. Unfathomable shape and size.

Weird.

Connor takes a breath, he feels it pulled in-into his lungs and then held there suspended. He can’t seem to exhale.

Then those fingers—which by all accounts on a human would be calloused and wrinkled and old and aged and rough rough rough but here they are smooth and perfect and android—touch his cock, smooth over the length of it, and the air leaves Connor is a rush.

Reflexive, he grabs at Hank’s shoulder. At Hank’s cheek.

This is such a bad idea, but Connor’s entire reality is quickly paring down to the points of contact between his body and Hank’s, shutting out everything else beyond the soft, rocking up and down of Hank’s hands.

A seasick motion.

Connor’s stomach heaves. And then suddenly he’s turning to the side, vomiting all over the couch. A hot, shameful, painful rush.

Hank, still in his lap, just inches from the mess, from being caught in it, blinks up at Connor. His light shutters red, shifts through the cycle twice before turning yellow and then smoothing back to blue.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says. A hand across the back of his mouth. Eyes screwing shut, unable to meet Hank’s searching gaze. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Hank.”

“Are you okay?”

Connor’s skin feels too tight. His throat burns. Roiling tightness in his belly still, the gripping nausea not quite passed. At least Hank’s hands aren’t touching his dick anymore.

“I’ll be fine.”

“That was not my question. Your probability of survival is ninety-seven percent but I am asking if you are okay. Your current physical readouts are...erratic, at best.”

“Erratic at best is a pretty good descriptor for my life in general. I should clean this up.”

“I can clean it up.”

“That’s gross. It’s not your—it’s vomit. That’s just nasty.”

“And you are still shaking. Your breathing is too shallow. You should go to bed, Connor. I can clean up. This is what you purchased me for, is it not?”

“You’re not a housekeeping model.”

“I’m not but...” His fingers twitch where they are touching Connor’s thigh. The mechanical joints clicking like clockwork, ticking along with whatever internal processes Hank has. Focusing too hard on it has Connor’s stomach looping again, his head pounding behind his eyes.

“If this is what you need, Connor, then I will strive to be it. I am, after all, meant to assist.”

Connor shuts his eyes again. Tries to divorce himself from the programmed, recorded warmth in Hank’s tone. Still sort of gruff but good cop all over again. Connor moves his legs, trying to get Hank to back off, to give him some space, but the android is motionless weight across his shin still. Connor can feel his gaze even with his own eyes still squeezed tight.

He opens them.

Hank’s blue, blue eyes are the first thing he sees.

Connor takes a breath.

“Let me up,” he says.

Hank moves, fractionally. Just far enough Connor can slither out from beneath him. His legs and stomach dip as he tries to right himself to standing, but Hank’s hands catch him before he can fall.

Efficiency.

They should have advertised that shit in the descriptor.

“I can walk myself,” Connor says through his teeth. Face so hot and so red he worries the coloring will become permanent.

“We both know that you cannot. You don’t need to lie to me, Connor, just to make yourself feel better.”

And how can he defend against that? What does he have to counter it.

Nothing, nothing.

He’s fucked. It’s fucked. Connor should be used to it by now. He should be, but as Hank closes the door behind him, the soft clicking of the jamb sliding home echoing in silence of the room, Connor realizes he is not.

Nothing, nothing.

Defenseless.

Connor shoves his hands against his eyes, presses and presses until the world is full of color and light like fireworks. At some point he falls asleep. 

He doesn’t remember much else.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter two coming soonish I think? Also keep an eye out for art updates also :)


End file.
